


The Raid

by illogicalbroccoli



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alien Culture, Alien Gender/Sexuality, Gay Bar, Gay Subculture, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Injury, M/M, Police Brutality, Pre-Canon, homophobic violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 09:05:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16951080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illogicalbroccoli/pseuds/illogicalbroccoli
Summary: On Old Cardassia, a successful vice operation is interrupted by a disconcerting visitor.





	The Raid

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place ten years or so prior to the beginning of Deep Space Nine. It is based on a headcannon where Garak and Parmak had a relationship prior to Garak’s interrogation of Parmak and Parmak’s subsequent imprisonment  
> My thanks to apolesen for beta-ing, encouragement, and general awesomeness.

Interrogations had revealed that there was much speculation among the invert population as to when and why Constabulary raids occurred. They could not fail to be aware that, despite all their precautions, the Constabulary was generally aware of a number of their meeting-places and times of gathering. So why, they asked themselves, did Constabulary raids occur only sporadically? What motivated the choice of any particular place or time? Various theories had apparently been proposed. Some suggested that raids were linked to power struggles within Central Command, as Guls and Legates hoped to obtain evidence with which to tar or blackmail their rivals. Others viewed the raids as exercises in political theatre, a low-cost way for the government to reassure loyal citizens that the state was busy protecting them from dangerous deviants. The duller among the inverts simply whispered “The Obsidian Order,” as if invoking the Order rendered further question unnecessary. 

Watch-Commander Tekeny Sebhat knew that all these explanations were needlessly baroque. The answer was much simpler: raids happened when the Constabulary were bored. Inversion was formally classed as a Category Six offence, with the same priority as Malicious Rumour and Defeatism. In practice, however, the Constabulary did not always treat inversion as urgently as the law advised. 

As Chief Tomak had once said, “When you’ve got gang wars in North Torr and terrorists putting grenades under omnibus seats, it’s hard to spare the men to rough up a few ponces.” 

But even in the Union Capital there were quiet periods. When a squad had spent octads with nothing but petty burglaries and domestic disputes, and the highest-profile arrest would be a man who turned his back on a Legate’s motorcade, a sensitive Station Chief, seeing the glum faces of his men, might pop out of his office and ask for volunteers for a Vice operation. There was never any shortage of hands. For the Constabulary of the capital, a raid on an invert den was practically a mini-holiday. It offered a chance both to gawk at the demimonde and to indulge in salutary violence against targets who were unlikely to be trained or equipped to offer much of a counterattack. Plus, there was always the possibility of catching a famous face among the guilty. Sebhat still smiled about the raid some years back, when a member of Central Command had been discovered wearing a spangled dress cut low enough to reveal his whole chula, singing a very racy song about a country girl who missing her farmhand lover who had gone to fight on Bajor. They had not been able to arrest him, of course, but Sebhat had had to stifle his laughter the next day when the man appeared on the public screens to announce that he was resigning his commission to devote himself to breeding racing hounds on his country estate. 

Tonight’s raid had not produced any such big fish, but it had been quite satisfactory in all other respects. The establishment chosen had been registered with the Office of the Civic Administrator as a “drinking-house and cultural discussion group.” Sebhat had shaken his head when he heard. And they said that inverts were cunning – they might as well have written “deviant meeting-house” on the official form. When the team had kicked in the doors, they had found more than enough decadence to satisfy their appetites for the outré. Men sat together in twos and sometimes threes, on elegantly-upholstered sofas or on pillow and rugs. Almost all were in the midst of embracing, caressing, nuzzling, when the squadristi broke in. On a small stage opposite the door, a man in a loose white outfit stood in spotlight; beside him another man sat strumming a batab. Presumably, a song or recitation had been in progress. Sebhat hoped that the performer had the text on him – ought to be good for a laugh later, decadent poetry usually was. The performer, and many of the other men, sported eyeshadow and a blue-dyed chufa. The air was dense with the smells of kanar, perfume, and musk. On bursting in, Sebhat found himself having to pause a moment to regain his composure as the pheromones flooded his airways. The moment was brief however. Sebhat looked about the room, grinned, and barked, “sorry ladies, show’s over!” For a moment, none of the patrons moved. ten one foolish soul jumped up and tried to run, and the fun began. 

It had been a very satisfying melée. The squadristi had kicked, punched and choked to their hearts’ content. Granted, a few of the inverts had fought back with more skill and ferocity than expected, but at the end of the day the Constabulary had got pain-sticks and disruptors, and they had not. It had all taken less than half a ven from start to finish. 

The battered deviants were just being herded into the prison-transport, the squadristi were laughing and reminiscing about the evening’s fun, and Sebhat was sucking on a dhoka-stick when the man appeared. He was middling-tall, in a finely-cut suit, and had startlingly blue eyes that  
Sebhat found somehow unnerving.

“Good evening, Watch-Commander,” the man said as he emerged from the gloom. He spoke with a smile that Sebhat found peculiarly insolent.

“This is an active Constabulary operation,” he snarled at the stranger. “What’s your business here?”

The man reached for his suit pocket, and Sebhat’s hand flew to the butt of his disruptor.

“No need to be hasty, Watch-Commander!” the man said. “I am only presenting my credentials. May I continue? Slowly, of course?”

Sebhat gestured minutely for the man to carry on. He reached into his pocket and drew out a small, oval wallet, placed his thumb over the lock’s scanner, then flipped it open. Sebhat felt his legs grow soft under him. The badge bore a symbol reminiscent of the Union seal, but half the figure was in shadow. Beneath the emblem was a small holo of the man who held it, and an identification number. There was, of course, no name.

“I’m terribly sorry to interrupt what is surely a highly successful operation,” the man said.

His ironic tone would, at other times, have brought Sebhat to a rage. At the moment, however, he was too preoccupied with his terror even to notice.

“I require one of your prisoners,” the man continued. “Would you be so good as to have one of your comrades fetch a certain Kelas Parmak? We believe he may be able to be of assistance to us.”

Sebhat swallowed, tapped his communicator and relayed the order.

“A not-unpleasant evening for this time of year,” the stranger said while they waited. “I get so few chances simply to stand and enjoy the night air. It’s quite invigorating, don’t you think?”

Sebhat said nothing.

“Do you follow the hounds at all? They say next octad’s race will be one to remember.”

Sebhat looked about, and felt a flush of relief as two squadristi arrived with a bedraggled figure between them. For a moment, Sebhat thought it was a tribad in travestie. Then he realized that it was in fact male, but with hair far longer than any decent Cardassian man would contemplate.

“Kelas Parmak,” said one of the squadristi.

Sebhat gestured toward the stranger, giving the squadristi a significant look. The message was clearly received, as they half-walked, half-dragged their captive toward the man.

“Capital,” he said. “Please hand him over.”  
The man walked up to the prisoner and gently slipped his arm around his chest, supporting him as the squadristi let go. The beaten man moaned and mumbled something that sounded like “Lim,” and then went silent again.

“You do not realize the extent of the service you may have done Cardassia today,” the stranger said to Sebhat. Then he turned and slowly drew his new companion into a waiting skimmer.

*** 

“Ouch!” said Kelas Parmak. “There is no need to be so forceful!”

“It is true,” Elim Garak replied as he dabbed at the other man’s wounded forehead. "Physicians make the worst patients.”

“I don’t see why I need to be your patient,” Parmak replied. “I am perfectly capable of dressing my own wounds. More capable of you, in fact.” 

Garak smiled and continued his ministrations.

“I am a noble champion, tending the wounds of my beloved,” he said.

“Clumsily,” Parmak replied. “And while I appreciate your sacrifice of a scarf to make me a sling, had we gone to the hospital as I suggested this arm could have been set by now.”

“A beaten man showing up moments after a police raid on a deviant nightclub would hardly fail to attract attention,” Garak said. “I happen to know that it is standard practice to monitor emergency wards immediately after constabulary operations in order to round up anyone who escaped the initial sweep.”

“There would be no point in asking how you know that, would there?” Parmak replied.

“No,” Garak said simply.

“Of course not.”

When he had finished cleaning and dressing Parmak’s injuries, Garak sat down on the bed next to him.

“I am fairly certain I remember advising against going to that club again,” he said. “They are not careful. I told you something like this would happen.”

Parmak met his gaze.

“Efet was performing, and I felt I owed it to him to attend,” he said evenly.

“I hope he appreciates the depth of your affection for him. I assume, of course, that affection is your motivation, it certainly cannot be poetic appreciation.”

“Just because Efet uses forms that are less than a century old—” Parmak retorted, and then grimaced as his arm shifted in its sling.

“Do you need another antodynic?” Garak asked.

“You have already given me more than the maximum recommended dosage,” Parmak said.

“You see?” Garak asked the room. “Physicians!”

There was a brief silence.

“Was it very expensive?” Parmak asked.

Garak cocked his head to the side.

“Buying my freedom. Did the Watch Commander ask for a great deal?”

“Not as these things go,” Garak said.

“Good,” said Parmak. “I would hate to think of you bankrupting yourself for my sake.” 

“I would hate even more to think of you up before the Archon for buggery,” Garak replied. “And it really did not cost me that much.”

“I somehow cannot believe that. But just a look around this overdecorated room tells me you can probably afford it. Someday, Garak, you are going to tell me what you do for a living.” 

“‘That great Jubilee someday,” Garak quoted. “When all our weary wishes find fruition.’”

The quote was from Eveny Ghata, a poet of the last century, whose florid style he knew Parmak found infuriating. Garak hoped the other man would laugh, or say something snide, but Parmak instead sat quietly, looking down.

“While we are dreaming of Someday,” he eventually said quietly. “Someday I will be able to hear a friend’s poetry in safety. Someday, you and I will be able to walk hand in hand down Victory Boulevard.”

Garak took the other man’s hand

 _Not on Cardassia,_ he thought, _not in my lifetime._

But he said, “Someday.”

They sat in silence again for a while.

“Elim?”

“Yes Kelas?”

“What were you doing in East Torr?”

In fact, all Constabulary operations were automatically relayed to the Obsidian Order; Garak had set up a program that alerted him when certain keywords were mentioned. Garak, however, simply said,

“I just had a feeling that you might need my help.”

“I am not ungrateful for it,” said Parmak.

“When you recover, I think I will have to ask you to demonstrate that gratitude,” Garak said with a smile.  
“I think you will find the demonstration satisfactory,” Parmak replied. “But for now, I think I must sleep.” 

“Do you want me to stay with you?” Garak asked.

“I would like that,” Parmak replied

Garak sat holding Parmak’s hand, listening as his breathing became slow and deep.

 _He’s right,_ Garak thought. _I will have to tell him, eventually. But let it not be soon. Gods of my ancestors, in whom I have never believed, let it not be soon._


End file.
